“Did you call him?”
“I got no answer. I could sure use him,” Tom said. “Dave’s in Erie, so it’s just me here and it’s Ladies Night.”
“I’ll hike over and remind him.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Richard hung up the phone and frowned. “That’s three.”
Brenda rethreaded her tapestry needle with another color yarn. “Three what?”
Richard leaned forward, resting his weight on his forearms. “Oddball things he’s done today.”
She sighed. “Jeffy?”
“First he parks in my spot in the garage; he doesn’t pick up his mail, and that was his boss on the phone. He never showed up for work.”
“I’d hardly call ignoring his mail an oddball thing. Besides, he’s probably been hiding in the dark to get rid of a headache.”
“He’s always been responsible enough to call in sick before this.”
“Then go over and see if he’s all right,” she said.
Richard pushed away from the desk. “I’ll be back in a few.”
He paused in the kitchen to pick up the small stack of junk mail and bills, then headed across the driveway.
The sun hovered just above the horizon, but the inside of Jeff’s apartment was dark and gloomy, the air stale. As Richard hit the light switch, the cat lifted its head, blinking at him from its nest on a chair. Richard ignored it and headed across the pristine apartment, dropping the mail on the dining table next to Jeff’s keys.
“Jeff?”
Richard headed for the bedroom and heard a thump as the cat jumped down to follow. He peered into the darkened room and saw the prone form. Jeff was usually a stomach sleeper, but there he was stretched out on his back, legs dangling as though he’d sat on the foot of the bed and had fallen back. He still wore his denim jacket and Nikes. “Jeff?” he tried again.
Richard turned on the bedside lamp, which would usually elicit a groan, but Jeff didn’t stir. “Jeff?” he said, concern curling through him. He reached for his brother’s wrist, felt a plodding pulse.
The cat jumped on the bed, planted his front paws on Jeff’s chest and sniffed his face. Jeff’s hand came up to bat the cat away. “Herschel,” he said, slurring the word.
“Jeff, wake up,” Richard tried again.
Jeff opened his eyes, squinting up at his brother. “What time is it?”
“Eight twenty. What’s going on?”
Jeff hitched himself up on his elbows; the purring cat rubbed against his shoulder. “Herschel,” he chided.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
“Did you eat today?” Richard asked.
Jeff rubbed his eyes. “Um . . . I dunno.”
“What did you do today?”
He blinked, as though thinking about it. “Went to Krista’s office.”
“What did you do there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What time did you get back?”
Jeff pulled himself into a sitting position, a frown settling over his features. “I dunno.”
“What’s the last thing you
do
remember?” Richard asked.
“I was there . . . now I’m here.”
“You don’t remember
anything
else?”
“I had a headache. She hypnotized me. Said I’d feel better.”
“Do you?”
“Headache’s gone. I’m cured.” Jeff looked up at Richard, frowned. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”
“Finding out why you didn’t show up for work.”
“Christ,” Jeff muttered, coming fully awake, and pushed himself off the bed, sending the cat flying. “Why didn’t you tell me it was so late?”
“Where’re you going?” Richard followed him into the living room.
“I’m fucking four hours late for work.” Jeff plunged his fingers into his jacket pocket, fishing for his keys.
“They’re on the table—your car is in my spot in the garage.”
“What the hell was I thinking?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Jeff scooped up his keys from the table and headed for the door.
“Aren’t you going to call first?”
“I’ll think up an excuse on the way.”
For someone who’d been totally out of it only minutes before, Jeff bounded down the stairs. Inside the garage, he got in his car and pressed the door opener before starting the engine.
Richard tapped on the glass. Jeff rolled down the window. “Are you going to be all right?”
“I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Richard ducked from under the garage door as Jeff hit the button to close it. He watched as the car turned right and the taillights disappeared before heading back to his own house.
“Well?” Brenda asked, as Richard reentered the study.
He snagged his half-empty wineglass before joining his wife on the couch.
“When I first walked into Jeff’s bedroom, he was lying half on and off the bed. He was dead to the world. I could’ve sworn he’d been drugged. But once he woke up, he was fine.”
She studied his face. “Then why the worried expression?”
“He went to see Krista Marsh today.”
“And?”
Richard shrugged. “I wish I knew what was going on.”
“Call Dr. Marsh and find out.”
“I can’t do that.” He sipped his wine. “That would be interfering. And Jeff’s a big boy.”
“He’s not her patient. Is he?”
Richard frowned. “He wasn’t supposed to be. But she
cured
his headache.”
“Cured?” Brenda asked, setting down her work.
“Yeah. But how? He says she hypnotized him.” Richard pursed his lips, staring into his wineglass. “But I couldn’t wake him.”
“Something did.”
Richard thought about it. “The cat.”
“He loves that cat. He’s connected to it,” she amended. “He doesn’t connect with you—on a psychic level.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
Richard thought back to when he’d first met Krista, some six or eight months before. The clinic where he volunteered had sponsored an open house. One of the other doctors on staff had introduced him to the cool blonde. He’d been impressed by her competent, self-assured demeanor, her ready laugh, and her resemblance to Esca.
Was that the reason he’d trusted her—because she reminded him so vividly of his ex-lover? He’d lived with Esca Borgstrom for three years, a lifetime before he met Brenda. He would have married her, but the institution was too archaic and restrictive for the cool Swede. She missed her homeland, and she hadn’t fallen for him like he’d fallen for her.
Brenda’s down-to-earth personality and her loving heart had rescued him from a year-long depression. He seldom thought of Esca . . . except when he looked at Krista Marsh.
Brenda eyed him quizzically. “What’s really bothering you?”
He didn’t answer.
“That in a week she ‘cured’ his headaches, and in over a year you couldn’t?”
Richard swirled the last of the wine in his glass. “I’m skeptical of the term ‘cure.’ Although, Krista has worked with chronic pain patients before. And she’s been running on grant money . . . .”
“Perhaps she’s come up with a new therapy.”
“Perhaps,” Richard murmured, and gulped the wine. “I think I’ll have a talk with her.”
“I thought you said that would be interfering?”
“It doesn’t have to be about Jeff.”
“Uh-huh,” Brenda muttered.
Richard frowned. “What are you thinking?”
Brenda went back to work on her needlepoint. “Watch yourself. She’s a trickster.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just a feeling.”
Richard watched her needle slide in and out of the canvas. Long before he learned to believe in Jeff’s intuitive flashes, he’d trusted Brenda’s hunches. And he had faith in this one, too.
It was
after ten and the bar was hopping when Krista finally returned my third call. Tom handed me the cordless phone and I cradled it on my shoulder as I mixed a daiquiri.
“Jeff—it’s Krista. You called?”
“Yeah. What the hell happened today?”
“I don’t understand.”
I turned away from the customers, lowering my voice. “You hypnotized me at noon—and I woke up at eight tonight in my own bed. What happened in those missing hours?”
Silence.
Finally, “You left my office just before one,” Krista said. “I walked you to your car. You said something about taking a nap when you got home. Don’t you remember?”
My anger twisted back to concern. I placed a napkin and the drink before my customer, picking up the five dollar bill. “No.”
“You sound upset. Do you want me to come over? We can talk about it.”
“I’m at work.”
“Then how about lunch tomorrow? You did invite me.”
I vaguely remembered that. “Okay.” She picked a place and said she’d meet me there.
“I’d better let you go now, Jeff. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hung up the phone and finished making change, setting it down in front of my customer. Then I turned to see my old high school buddy sitting at the far end of the bar.
“Hey, how’re things in the newspaper biz?” I asked, my voice sounding calmer than I felt.
“You left me a message,” Sam Nielsen said by way of greeting.
We’d first met in ninth grade at Amherst Central High: Sam was Mr. Cool, I was a nerd. We’d worked together on the yearbook staff. I was a photographer, he worked his way up to editor. I wasn’t sure we were ever friends, but knowing someone on staff at
The Buffalo News
had served me well. And the story tips I’d given Sam during the past year or so hadn’t hurt him, either.
“Buy you a drink?” I asked.
Sam smiled, smoothing a hand over his balding pate. “Now I know it’s love and not just my good looks.”
“Grow up.” I put Krista out of my mind and poured him a beer. “I’ve got a favor to ask.” I set a new bowl of pretzels in front of him as added insurance. “I need some info on a guy.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Not business—and definitely not pleasure.”
“Oh, then this is just the warm up?” Sam proffered his glass. “What’s in it for me?”
“Lunch?”
“Hardly an inducement. If there’s a story behind this, I want it.”
“No story. I mean, nothing I’m investigating. It’s personal.” How could I say it without sounding like a jealous lover—or some kind of maniacal stalker? “A friend of mine is involved with this guy, and I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
Sam wasn’t buying it. “Is that all?”
I blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “That’s all.”
Sam tapped the side of his glass. “Who’s the mark?”
“Douglas Mallon, owner and CEO of Mallon Printing in Tonawanda.”
Sam frowned. “What kind of info are you looking for?”
“General stuff. Maybe you’ve run something in the paper on him or his business. Drunk driving maybe. Don’t bother with their website. It only talks about the printing they do.”
Sam grabbed a handful of pretzels, studying me. “Why don’t you do it yourself? You
were
an investigator.”
“I don’t have a starting point. No social security number—nothing. He could be the greatest guy in the world—”
“But you don’t think so . . . ?”
“I don’t know.”
Sam shook his head. “Unless I interview the guy, I can’t guarantee anything.”
“I’m not asking for that. Just find out what you can.”
Sam scribbled down the info on a steno notepad. “Okay, I’ll try. And you owe me a first class lunch. No Burger King. I want a place with real silverware, linen napkins, and a martini, straight up.”
“You got it.”
The sightless
dream world captured me once more, leaving me groping in the darkness for the warmth of another soul. Suffocating inertia robbed me of my will. All I could do was float in some vast emptiness.
I felt a presence. Feathery soft lips touched mine. The tip of a tongue darting, exploring
—
learning. Warm, bare skin on mine. Small breasts pressed flat against my chest. I ached to caress them, but my leaden arms wouldn’t move. A creeping paralysis kept me frozen.
“Love me,” she whispered, the words strained
—
almost a plea.
Frustrating to be so near and unable to hold her, to touch her
—
speak to her.
I let go, abandoning my will to her need.
Her awkward hands played with me, teased me, coaxed me until desire raged through me. Surging, growing, seething. Molten living rock, building momentum from deep within. An explosion of blood red magma. Pleasure and pain merged. Satisfaction dying to puzzlement.
How I longed to see her eyes . . . .